She could live with that. It held back the ennui that might overtake her if she thought too much about the horror just a couple of miles down in the valley. Columns of smoke, snaking up from the city below, haunted the bucolic fiction of the Homestead, where the aroma of baking bread intermingled with the titter of playing children. Like a phantom lurking just out of reach, she knew that the malignancy among the fires could gobble up this refuge. It was never far from Emily’s mind that the poor masses weren’t strangers. They were people. They had been her friends.
Jacquelyn heard the commotion that morning but couldn’t bring herself to look at the dead body in the OHV. She and Tom had talked about the death that would accompany a social collapse and they had known it would come to this.
The first dead body had arrived at the Homestead, and she had chosen not to look at it. Based on what she had heard about the shooting, she assumed the dead man had a family and children. His only sin was to be desperate and careless. Even so, her own children came first, and that meant she would refuse to take the journey of conscience. She would refuse to dwell on the morality of killing a man to protect herself and her family.
Screw it all, she thought, intentionally throwing off the version of herself that had taught New Age consciousness classes, counseled people on spiritual health, and lived life by a modern ethic.
She remembered all her fancy New Age beliefs about a universe that could be trusted to deliver on positive mental attitude. She found those beliefs irrelevant in a world where her child’s chest could be pierced by a bullet at any moment.
She dedicated her adult life to higher thinking and now, with her children filling her whole heart, she abandoned those beliefs wholesale. Like rejecting the idea of buying an expensive car because the family budget couldn’t bear it, Jacquelyn left behind the carefully laid philosophies of a hundred self-help books and countless hours of soul-searching. She believed in just four things now: her husband and her three children. One. Two. Three. Four.
The rest were luxuries she could no longer afford. It wasn’t that she had become a woman without principles. Quite the contrary, her principles were now embodied in four human beings.
Jacquelyn’s mind wandered as she hung Tom’s camo pants on the clothesline. The forest outside the kitchen and wash area was festooned with a massive amount of drying clothing, with yards and yards of parachute cord strung between the trees. Homestead residents had finally run out of clean clothing, and had at last resorted to washing their clothes by hand in the large, tin wash basins, complete with old-fashioned washing boards.
It had come like the ultimate surrender to the Apocalypse—finally washing clothes by hand. The women admitted to themselves that no help was coming. In the strange calculus of large groups, the women had given in to that truth all at the same time. That first wash day meant they were in this for the long haul. It also meant that an enormous number of garments needed to be air-dried at the same time.
How’re we going to dry our clothes in the winter? Jacquelyn wondered.
Between the forest of trees and the forest of hanging clothes, she saw Alena hanging her own family’s clothing, more denim than camo. Jacquelyn debated approaching her. Both women had emerged as natural Homestead leaders, even though Alena was actually on the committee and Jacquelyn was not. Jacquelyn hung her last pair of pants and walked over to Alena.
“You doing okay?” Jacquelyn touched Alena’s arm lightly, startling the nurse out of her reverie.
“I guess I’m all right,” Alena answered. “I’m just so angry about the killing of that poor man.”
Jacquelyn hesitated. “Yeah. Who would’ve thought a month ago we’d be responsible for something so terrible?”
“We don’t need to kill people,” Alena exclaimed, her voice climbing an octave.
Still touching her arm, Jacquelyn stepped up to the conflict. “I wanted to make sure you knew where I stand on that… seeing as we’re a couple of the ‘power ladies’ around here.” They both laughed.
“I support Kirkham and the military guys in doing what they have to do to protect our families,” Jacquelyn said without ambiguity.
Alena’s face screwed a little tighter, rising to the disagreement.
Jacquelyn’s hand left Alena’s arm and she continued before Alena could interject. “I understand your position on this. I truly do. But I’m going to stand firm on any choice that makes my kids safer, even if that means we do things that are hard to understand. Alena, please consider the possibility that the world has changed very quickly. If we don’t change with it, I’m afraid our families won’t survive. It’s nothing personal, but I’m going to stand with the gun guys whenever this comes up. I choose my kids over anything else.”
Alena looked at Jacquelyn, not sure how to answer. After a second, she asked, “Even if that means killing innocent people?”
Jacquelyn nodded. “Yes, innocent people are going to die. I’d rather the innocent people be people other than my children. I can’t afford the same kind of principles I could a week ago.”
Alena nodded. “I disagree, but thank you for talking to me directly. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying that we stand a better chance if we do what’s right.”
Jacquelyn reached out and pulled Alena in for a hug. It started awkwardly, but melted into a sincere embrace. Alena’s body shuddered as she stifled a sob. Jacquelyn held her until she stilled.
They drew apart and Alena wiped her nose.
“Sisters, no matter what, right?” Jacquelyn asked.
Alena looked up, a little embarrassed. “Sisters, for sure.”
They both went back to hanging their laundry, a slightly uncomfortable silence between them.
The Avenues
Salt Lake City, Utah
In 1860, the Mormon settlers in the Salt Lake Valley laid out a neighborhood proximate to downtown, but far enough away that small merchants could afford to build. The Avenues were originally without water, shoehorned between the Mormon temple, the state capitol building and the University of Utah. Over time, the “Avs” evolved from being low-income merchant housing to the preferred neighborhood of Mormon prophets and politicians. The neighborhood would ultimately become one of the premium locations for up-and-comers, as well as old money of Salt Lake City.
Just nine days after two nuclear attacks and the crash of the American stock market, residents poured out of the Avenues, fleeing death and destruction, almost all of them barefoot. Gunshots crackled every minute or two, and fires crept from “A” Street steadily toward Virginia Street.
The Los Latigos gang had ballooned to somewhere around a thousand men by the time they went to war in the Avenues. It had been a stroke of genius to send hand-delivered messages to all Latino communities. Only a tiny percentage of Latinos came, but a tiny percentage of three-hundred-thousand Latinos added up to an army.
Few of the Latino men had guns when they arrived in the Avenues, walking in small groups down the corridor Francisco mapped with his lieutenants that morning. For the most part, only gangsters carried guns and they weren’t ideal for house-to-house fighting.
But every second or third house in the Avenues had its own stock of rifles and handguns. After raiding just a few blocks, the Latigos gang accumulated more guns and ammunition than they would ever need.
Francisco joined the first raids to show his men he hadn’t lost his edge. They burst through the front doors, usually unlocked, and moved room to room. When they found residents, they herded them into the family room and pointed their guns at the kids. After that, the adults would tell them anything: where to find guns, ammunition, drugs and alcohol. It was a piece of cake—the easiest score Francisco had ever made.